The Breathing Bark

There’s a tree in Molly’s garden. It’s taller than she can see and wider than she can throw her arms around, but she hopes one day her skinny limbs will encompass it. Molly likes to think that, when she hugs this tree and gets bark scrapes on her belly, she can rest her ear against its skin and feel it breathe. Sometimes she likes to think she can hear it talk.
“That tree talks you know,” she points out to her brother.
“Trees don’t talk Molly,” he says, as he ignores the rustled protests carried on the wind.